him every damn time.”
It was good to see Benny. Lockwood and Benny Harris were the same age and had been in the Fighting 69th together, but there
the similarities ended. Lockwood hadn’t gained more than seven pounds since he was seventeen; Benny’s extra seventy-five pounds
sat uneasily on his 5’4” frame. Lockwood took care of himself and enjoyed life; Benny ran the Manhattan action for the Hagerty
syndicate, and it meant keeping tabs on over a hundred guys and thousands of dollars a week, every dollar of which had a tendency
—unless vigilantly watched—to grow stout little legs and run off. Benny Harris probably did work harder than Bill Lockwood.
His business was expanding rapidly, and he put in sixteen-hour days, from ‘noon to four in the morning, six and seven days
a week. If the two hadn’t been such tight buddies back in the war, they would have been much more edgy with each other.
“You ought to take some time off, Benny,” Lockwood said. “You look run-down.”
“I feel run-down. I’ve had to work my ass off all winter. You, now—I ought to stop calling you ‘Hook’—I’m not even sure you
could throw a punch any more.”
Lockwood laughed. “You want to go a few rounds with me?”
Benny laughed at the idea. Benny’s talents had. never lain in his fists, but in his managerial skills. In fact, Lockwood was
one of his first ventures, one which had resulted in Hook’s nickname among all his old army buddies.
Lockwood had been seventeen when America had entered the “War to End Wars,” and, big for his age, he joined up and went overseas
with the New York Fighting 69th. He and Benny had met on the troop ship, hit it off, and made an agreement to keep an eye
on the other’s back while they were in combat, an agreement that turned out to be useful in poker and dice games on board
the troop ships, in dance halls, and in bars all over France. Trench warfare in the Verdun Sector added a bond that neither
of them could imagine anything in the civilian world ever breaking.
During a lull in the fighting, Benny, manager of the regimental boxing team, was challenged by a master sergeant in the First
Marines. Cockier back then, Benny had matched Lockwood with the Marine regimental champ at long odds.
Looking back at the fight, Lockwood realized that he had been too young and inexperienced to be as frightened as he should
have been; under Benny’s directions he won the bloody ten-rounder by knocking out the older and bigger Marine champ.
Nobody in the 69th ever forgot that fight or the three-to-one money they won off the marines. That money had financed the
longest, wettest beer bash, three-days’ worth, in the regiment’s history and had made Lockwood’s nickname “Hook”—for the left
hook that left the champ sprawled out cold in the tenth—to every soldier of the regiment.
Now in Nathan’s Place Benny asked, “So, what can I do for you, Hook?”
“I’ve been out on the Island the last few days, Benny,” Hook opened. He spoke in his most casual voice and watched Benny’s
face closely, but saw no flicker of response. “I got a big case out there.”
Benny leaned back, relaxed, ready to receive the proposition. Friendship went a long way, his face seemed to say, but business
was business. Lockwood wondered what Benny knew, or whether he thought this was just another case of missing jewelry or bearer
bonds.
“Somebody missing something, huh?” Benny asked.
“Yeah. You hear of any action out there?”
“Nothin’ special. What’s missing?”
“All the way out, Benny. Near Islip, Patchogue, near the potato farmers.”
Benny shook his head and looked mystified, which proved nothing. “What’s missing, Hook?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Okay. Who’s missing it?”
“I’d rather not say that either.”
Benny frowned and leaned forward. “Let’s keep trying. When did they miss it?”
“Last week. Wednesday
It was good to see Benny. Lockwood and Benny Harris were the same age and had been in the Fighting 69th together, but there
the similarities ended. Lockwood hadn’t gained more than seven pounds since he was seventeen; Benny’s extra seventy-five pounds
sat uneasily on his 5’4” frame. Lockwood took care of himself and enjoyed life; Benny ran the Manhattan action for the Hagerty
syndicate, and it meant keeping tabs on over a hundred guys and thousands of dollars a week, every dollar of which had a tendency
—unless vigilantly watched—to grow stout little legs and run off. Benny Harris probably did work harder than Bill Lockwood.
His business was expanding rapidly, and he put in sixteen-hour days, from ‘noon to four in the morning, six and seven days
a week. If the two hadn’t been such tight buddies back in the war, they would have been much more edgy with each other.
“You ought to take some time off, Benny,” Lockwood said. “You look run-down.”
“I feel run-down. I’ve had to work my ass off all winter. You, now—I ought to stop calling you ‘Hook’—I’m not even sure you
could throw a punch any more.”
Lockwood laughed. “You want to go a few rounds with me?”
Benny laughed at the idea. Benny’s talents had. never lain in his fists, but in his managerial skills. In fact, Lockwood was
one of his first ventures, one which had resulted in Hook’s nickname among all his old army buddies.
Lockwood had been seventeen when America had entered the “War to End Wars,” and, big for his age, he joined up and went overseas
with the New York Fighting 69th. He and Benny had met on the troop ship, hit it off, and made an agreement to keep an eye
on the other’s back while they were in combat, an agreement that turned out to be useful in poker and dice games on board
the troop ships, in dance halls, and in bars all over France. Trench warfare in the Verdun Sector added a bond that neither
of them could imagine anything in the civilian world ever breaking.
During a lull in the fighting, Benny, manager of the regimental boxing team, was challenged by a master sergeant in the First
Marines. Cockier back then, Benny had matched Lockwood with the Marine regimental champ at long odds.
Looking back at the fight, Lockwood realized that he had been too young and inexperienced to be as frightened as he should
have been; under Benny’s directions he won the bloody ten-rounder by knocking out the older and bigger Marine champ.
Nobody in the 69th ever forgot that fight or the three-to-one money they won off the marines. That money had financed the
longest, wettest beer bash, three-days’ worth, in the regiment’s history and had made Lockwood’s nickname “Hook”—for the left
hook that left the champ sprawled out cold in the tenth—to every soldier of the regiment.
Now in Nathan’s Place Benny asked, “So, what can I do for you, Hook?”
“I’ve been out on the Island the last few days, Benny,” Hook opened. He spoke in his most casual voice and watched Benny’s
face closely, but saw no flicker of response. “I got a big case out there.”
Benny leaned back, relaxed, ready to receive the proposition. Friendship went a long way, his face seemed to say, but business
was business. Lockwood wondered what Benny knew, or whether he thought this was just another case of missing jewelry or bearer
bonds.
“Somebody missing something, huh?” Benny asked.
“Yeah. You hear of any action out there?”
“Nothin’ special. What’s missing?”
“All the way out, Benny. Near Islip, Patchogue, near the potato farmers.”
Benny shook his head and looked mystified, which proved nothing. “What’s missing, Hook?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Okay. Who’s missing it?”
“I’d rather not say that either.”
Benny frowned and leaned forward. “Let’s keep trying. When did they miss it?”
“Last week. Wednesday
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